


A Winter Overture

by ianavi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, British Museum, Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, Duvet Fic, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Gardens & Gardening, Kissing, Light Sicfic, London, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Retirementlock, Romance, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sleeping Together, Snow, Takeaway on the sofa at 221B, Tea, Wool Socks, bread baking, retirement fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-05-26 11:53:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianavi/pseuds/ianavi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dressed in a white tailored shirt and pressed wool trousers, a tangle of thinning salt and pepper curls held off the frowning brow by stainless steel rimmed reading glasses, svelte and slightly stooped with age. </p><p>Beautiful. Brilliant. Extraordinary. </p><p>And his. </p><p>--- </p><p>Sherlock's late love and retirement... </p><p>Rating, summary, tags and characters will be updated per chapter, so check if returning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

By now he could recognize the composition. One of his favorites and clearly played for his enjoyment on this dreary rainy evening. It was misleadingly simple in its melody, a tricky and playful picking of the violin strings, and yet saturnine, demanding, and at moments bloody infuriating under the bow.

Much like the man who stood, eyes closed, in the center of the room and played.

Dressed in a white tailored shirt and pressed wool trousers, a tangle of thinning salt and pepper curls held off the frowning brow by stainless steel rimmed reading glasses, svelte and slightly stooped with age.

Beautiful. Brilliant. Extraordinary.

And his.

A stark contrast to his own worn and patched corduroys, the cheap paperback novel he held in his lap, the pair of wellingtons drying off by the door, the country house itself with its frayed carpet, chipped tea cups, whistling wind.

How lucky was he?

A tear escaped, then an embarrassing sniffle.

Sharp cerulean eyes turned to him, then the music abruptly stopped.

"John, are you alright?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wind was positively howling, the cold harsh. The snow was already past his ankles and falling thick. And there was no one there. If John wasn't careful he'd slip and they'd find him frozen outside his doorstep. Wouldn't that be a story for the locals in the village pub. Struggling a bit with his gloves he switched on the torch and waved it in the direction of the road. Just in case. 
> 
> A flicker of lights. A car? Oh, bloody hell. His adrenaline spiked. What idiot would be on these roads in this weather?

John loved the rare snow storms and this one was building up to be a right bastard. Gale force winds and heavy snowfall announced in public warnings, preparations in the nearby village, calls from old friends checking up on each other. And there was Mike, posing proudly in front of his snow plough equipped tractor for the local paper. This time he may actually get a chance to use it.

He checked on the bees one last time as the winter sun waned and humming a tune walked back to the house wrapping his jacket tight against the strong wind gusts. The hives were wrapped in black tar paper and fed for overwintering, tools and equipment stored, plenty of firewood and a stocked pantry. Unless the roof blew off his small house, he was fine for a few weeks no matter the weather. He was still in good shape and strong for a man in his early sixties, thank you very much, and loved his life on the moor away from the bustle of the village.

Now, to check on the stew he had bubbling on the wood-burning stove, the day's preparations in the cold had him yearning for a hot supper and cool ale.

He was just settling down in the armchair in front of the fire to relax for the evening when the radio started crackling and breaking off into static. The howling wind must have damaged the aerial. It was an old, bent piece of wire mesh and long overdue for a contemporary replacement. With a groan he got up to switch the receiver off and walked the few steps to the window to peer into the snow swirling in the near darkness.

At first he wasn't sure. His hearing was no longer as sharp. But there it was again. A repetitive noise. The belt of an engine? He cracked open the window slightly letting in a gust of wind to hear better. Yes, something, someone was out there.

Feeling adventurous John took down his waterproof trousers and winter jacket hanging by the door and dressed. A torch from the kitchen drawer, right. Gloves. Then sitting on the wooden bench he pulled on his boots.

He took just a few steps outside his door and started feeling foolish. The wind was positively howling, the cold harsh. The snow was already past his ankles and falling thick. And there was no one there. If he wasn't careful he'd slip and they'd find him frozen outside his doorstep. Wouldn't that be a story for the locals in the village pub. Struggling a bit with his gloves he switched on the torch and waved it in the direction of the road. Just in case.

A flicker of lights. A car? Oh, bloody hell. His adrenaline spiked. What idiot would be on these roads in this weather? And now clearly stalled?!

With a huff he set out in the direction of the now extinguished lights. If this was Mike with his tractor in a ditch by the road, he'd never let him forget it.

"Hey! Hullo!" John kept waving the torch as he pressed on.

The car's lights flickered again, and the sound of an engine belt failing was heard again.

Soon he was able to see the vehicle in the light of the torch and a figure inside. He walked right up and banged on the window. "Hey, you're stuck!"

"Well obviously!" a deep man's voice answered.

Idiot.

John yanked the door on the passenger's side open and shone the light into the car's cabin. A single person, a rather disheveled looking man wrapped in several scarves as if wearing a turban, gripping the wheel. "Well obviously," he let his irritation show, "you can't stay here in this storm! Follow me to the house! Come on it's bloody freezing!"

The man exited the car and trampled awkwardly, slipping and sliding with one hand on the vehicle, through the snow to reach John. A tall idiot. Without hesitation John grabbed a wrist and started pulling him along towards the house.

Finally inside, after what must have been only minutes but felt far too long, the two stood shaking off the snow. John got a good look at the towering pile of wet wool next to him, bare pale hands clutching at the turned up coat collar.

"Who wears leather soled brogues in this weather?!"

And then he really took him in. Oh, fuck. This was serious. The man was shivering and swaying on the spot, eyes wondering about the room. Hypothermia.

"Alright, alright, let's get that wet coat off, come on."

He helped the man take a few shaky steps to the armchair and lowered him to sit. He was not responding, not speaking, a bad sign. Carefully John unwrapped the soaked scarves from his head and neck revealing matted greyish hair and a frighteningly pale face, lips already blue. Then the coat and the suit jacket under it. The gray cotton shirt seemed dry and John left it on, then picked up a thick knit blanket from a nearby basket and wrapped the man's head and shockingly thin upper body. He glanced back at the fire, still hot and bright. Good. The shivering was worse now.

The shoes were next. He knelt down with slight difficulty and flinched as he slid off wet leather and freezing, mostly wet, socks.

"Trousers also need to go, sorry, they're wet, too."

Another blanket pulled from his own bed in the corner of the room to wrap gaunt legs and wobbly knees. He left the feet out as the fire was their best bet. John was worried now. Malnutrition and hypothermia were a bad combination. He rubbed the feet gently with his hands as the man blinked at him.

"Feeling better?" The man nodded. Responsive, good. John smiled with a touch of relief. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Sh- Sh- Sherlock."

"Great, great, Sherlock. I'm John. Scared me there for a moment." He continued rubbing the slowly warming skin for a moment, then wrapped the feet under the blanket. "Why don't I make us some tea? You stay here by the fire."

"Well... highly unlikely... I'd leave...," the man grumbled, still stuttering slightly, and John laughed and looked at the snow gathering in the windows.

"Oh, no, we're stuck here tonight, the two of us."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yes, I am an MD," John spoke calmly, "retired recently, but still able to notice signs one is not taking care of themselves properly, signs of malnutrition and poor grooming habits." 
> 
> Sherlock waved one elegant hand dismissively, "Transport. Boring." He quirked an eyebrow in clear provocation. "Now, about your military background..."

John had pulled up a kitchen chair close to the fire and the wool-swaddled man in his armchair. They sipped their second cup of tea quietly and he watched the pinkening cheeks and two large hands holding the teacup that now shook significantly less. Skin pale, and not only from the cold, knuckles dry and cracked to scabs, two broken fingernails. He'd helped him pull on a pair of thick wool socks and noticed a badly bruised shin. This was a person who did not take care of himself and clearly had no one to check up on him. Mid to late fifties, he guessed, but unkempt to a point John thought early onset dementia might be an issue. Stranded in inadequate clothes and shoes in this weather...

"So, doctor, do I pass?"

The deep and now clear voice startled him from his thoughts and he felt called out for his starring. John tried, "What? Sorry...?"

"Did I pass your assessment, doctor?"

"How could you possibly know I'm an MD?"

And in stark contrast to his disoriented and stuttering state so far Sherlock continued, "The moment you had me indoors you evaluated my state and, quite correctly, pronounced me hypothermic. Your actions were textbook, including making sure my head and torso were dry and wrapped in warm blankets first. I was... out of it, slightly, but I do think you checked my pulse on two occasions, finger and toe mobility, too, and this tea has not been fortified with whatever the locals pass off as whisky, thankfully, although I assume you do have some stashed in a cupboard. And now, emergency over, you've been assessing my general state with some concern." He smirked, crossed his long legs and settled back into the armchair as if awaiting a retort, the punctuating posturing slightly off due to the ensemble of two crochet blankets and bright blue wool socks.

John smiled, "Well, dementia is off the table."

"Dementia?!" Sherlock looked appalled.

"Yes, I am an MD," John spoke calmly, "retired recently, but still able to notice signs one is not taking care of themselves properly, signs of malnutrition and poor grooming habits."

Sherlock waved one elegant hand dismissively, "Transport. Boring." He quirked an eyebrow in clear provocation. "Now, about your military background..."

"How in hell could you know...?" John stood up. "Who are you?"

"Calm down, doctor, I am not a villain from one of your paperback spy novels," he nudged his head towards the single bookshelf, "ones you keep next to your old, clearly outdated, medical textbooks. Sentimental?"

John stared at the shelf. Right. He didn't even notice those anymore. "That's quite... astute." He took in the whole room, fireplace, bookshelf, large chest of drawers that held his clothes and linens, the bed in the corner, the clothes airer Sherlock's things were drying on next to it. "No military paraphernalia here though."

Sherlock looked more and more amused. "You swept your torch methodically surveying the vehicle, as if a hostile might jump out, not to mention your stance and haircut betray habits adapted some decades ago." He smirked. "And how else to explain the smell of gun oil? Were you a hunting man there'd be more fur and less," he fingered the blanket with a scowl, "cheap wool-acrylic blend in here."

"That was amazing... quite amazing." John sat back down, grinning.

Sherlock looked puzzled, then cleared his throat, "Yes, well, I am far from retired."

"You're with the police then?"

"Of course not, lot of incompetent imbeciles. The London Met does consult me on occasion."

"Oh, a private detective?"

Sherlock scoffs, "A consulting detective. I invented the job."

"Amazing."

Sherlock adjusted the 'cheap wool-acrylic' blanket Molly, the village fishmonger, had gifted John as a thank you for helping out with her three sons. It seemed a scrape, cut or sprain were daily occurrence in the household, with a broken bone or two once in a while. Brave woman. And gifted crafter. It was a lovely blanket.

John got up and took the empty cup from Sherlock's hand. Walking to the kitchen he asked, "Was it work then? That brought you all the way here?" There was some clatter and the sound of cupboards opening and closing.

"A case, yes, it started with a..."

Sherlock spoke at length of a supposed suicide that was in fact a murder, the victim's stamp collection at the centre of it all. It was supposed to be quick two-day case that turned into a week-long investigation of cross-border art smuggling involving Interpol. John could barely follow the chain of deductions Sherlock revealed in quick order.

"What about some hot stew and bread," John interrupted looking back towards the armchair, "I bake the bread myself, rye with caraway." He winked.

Sherlock looked stunned. "I... bread... Yes. Thank you."

John brought a tea tray with a large bowl of stew, several thick slices of the bread and two full cups of tea. He set the tray on a side table and pushed it towards the armchair, took his own cup and sat back to watch his unexpected dinner guest.

Sherlock gingerly picked up the spoon and looked at John who nodded with encouragement. He finally took the bowl and started eating, slowly first, then with clear pleasure, dipping the bread in the stew, crumbling it all over that blanket, smacking his lips.

John couldn't take his eyes off the man. He was obviously brilliant, as far from dementia as one could be at any age, and, if John was honest with himself, possibly the most handsome man he'd ever laid eyes on. And he really loved his stew, scraping up the last spoonfuls.

"Should I heat up more?" John asked.

"Oh, no, thank you John, this was plenty. And exceptionally flavorful." He set the empty bowl back on the tray and took the tea cup. "I suppose you have to be a proficient cook living here, not many takeaways down the street."

"No," John laughed, "we're far from London here."

"That you are," he nodded as if considering the thought.

They spent a while sipping tea, John getting up to stoke the fire on two occasions. Soon it was clear the day's events and a stomach full of hot stew were too much for Sherlock, his head drooping into the blankets.

"Come on, let's get you settled in bed. You'll slide off the chair soon." John stood offering a hand for him to lean on if necessary.

Sherlock suddenly looked unsure of himself, and disconcerted, as if he were a much younger man. He pulled one of the blankets tight around his body. The other had fallen down to the floor a while ago.

"Come. You take the bed." John gestured towards the bed again. "The linens are clean."

On his own, shirt wrinkled, wool socks and blanket dragging along the wooden floor, Sherlock shuffled to the bed and crawled under the duvet in his strange outfit.

John took the opportunity for a quick run to the unheated bathroom, then brushed his teeth over the kitchen sink and banked the fire for the night. Lights off, he picked up the blanket and, dressed as he was, found a comfortable position in the armchair.

"John?" A whisper.

"Yeah?" He looked up sleepily to see curls protruding from the pillows.

"This... coverlet. It is lightweight and yet seems to possess surprising insulating ability."

"The duvet? I've had it for years." John yawned and closed his eyes.

"I've only ever used an eiderdown since boarding school, quite a stiff one actually, wool. I wonder if these 'duvets' are available in London, perhaps my tailor might have an idea, textiles are not..." John listened to him drift off to a mumble, then a soft snore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well, John," Sherlock took a thick scarf from the hook into his own hands and wrapped it around John's neck, "had we met earlier in life perhaps you'd been a worthy consulting detective's assistant. You do seem less of an idiot than the rest of them."

Early morning light woke him and for a moment John thought he had fallen asleep reading in his armchair. The room was quite cold and his back was uncomfortable. Then he noticed the man in his bed. And smiled. The duvet was pulled over his head leaving nothing but one lanky leg to protrude from its bottom edge, with its bright blue socked foot. One of the pillows was on the floor.

Well, the storm brought more adventure than John dared anticipate.

He took care of the fire first, blanket around his shoulders, then took a look out the window. Shy morning sun over untouched and luminous snow. Oh, he couldn't wait to get outside and get a lungful of that air!

He was on his second cup of tea, the room now toasty warm, when gray curls emerged from the duvet cocoon.

"Oh, John." Sherlock sat up and looked about the room, yawning. "You've been up a while. And out. My apologies, I am typically not prone to oversleeping. Must be a reaction to yesterday's hypothermia." 

"Toast with butter?" John was already cutting the bread. "I'm afraid the bathroom is not heated but I have an extra toothbrush here, you can wash up in the sink. I do when it's this cold." He shrugged.

"Just tea is fine." Sherlock got up, shirt, pants and the ridiculous socks, grabbed his trousers from the clothes airer and started to pull them on. He inspected the jacket.

"And toast." John muttered stubbornly and placed the butter on the table. Eyeing one of the shelves he took down a small pot of honey.

"Well," still looking at the suit jacket, "this will need to be cleaned, mud on the sleeve." He set it back and crossing his arms, walked towards the table.

"I could give it a wash in the sink?" John gestured.

Sherlock made a pain-stricken face. "This... This is a bespoke suit, John. One does not scrub it in the kitchen sink with dish soap!"

And John giggled. Passing Sherlock he set one hand on a bony shoulder and pulled him towards the chair. "Come on, tea's getting cold. I've got a cardigan here that might fit you, always had to roll up the sleeve cuffs..."

Sherlock sat down and reached for the cup as he rummaged through the drawers.

"Here we go."

Sherlock eyed the navy cardigan briefly, then pulled it on, unrolling the cuffs of the sleeves that were still slightly too short. "Cashmere, John?"

John pushed a plate with two thick slices of rye-bread toast towards him. "Yeah, a gift from my sister. She means well. Told you it would fit you." He nodded towards the plate.

Sherlock started buttering one slice with a frown.

"After breakfast we'll try Mike." John ate while he spoke. "Although I assume he's having a time of his life plowing through the village. Until he passes our way no mechanic or towing service can reach us. And that could be late. Or tomorrow. Should we let anyone know you're here?"

"No, no one is expecting me. The case was wrapped up and there is nothing of interest in London at this moment." He was now eating with clear signs of pleasure, slathering a second slice with butter and sprinkling sea salt flakes on top. "I tried my mobile last night but its battery is out. Only emails from idiots anyway."

John made more toast and opened the honey pot, Sherlock's gaze immediately drawn to it and after a beat his hand extending to grab it.

"A dipper, John, if you have one. Or a spoon will do." He held up the glass pot against the modest morning light as John watched. "Hm, light in colour," he smelled it, "with a delicate floral bouquet... clover?" John nodded. "Is it local?"

"Very local, yes." John laughed passing a wooden honey dipper and watching as Sherlock carefully swirled a teaspoon sized drop onto the side of his plate. He proceeded to dip a fingertip in the honey, bring it to his lips and suck on it. Feeling suddenly very foolish, heat in his cheeks, John cleared his throat, "The hives are not a hundred feet from the chair you're sitting on. So, yeah, very local."

Sherlock looked at him as if discovering an unexpected treasure. "John..."

"Yeah?" Blushing? Really?

"You are an apiarist?" His voice was hushed.

Trying to look as if he was just casually sipping his morning tea and not being scrutinized by possibly the world's only consulting detective who was capable of tearing apart an international smuggling ring after licking an edge of a fifty-year-old stamp, John cleared his throat again. "A couple of hives. It's a rewarding hobby for a retired doctor."

In between swirling more honey from the dipper onto his toast, biting enthusiastically, humming, smacking his lips and licking his fingers - a display John couldn't take his eyes off - the man attempted to speak. "... for the winter. And young queens, I assume, yes, of course, a pragmatic man like yourself..." More licking and smacking. "... last year's spring blossom honey crop was outstanding, I've been informed. And the summer clover and brambles..." Nope, not dementia, not an eating disorder, and hardly lack of access to shops selling honey in London. "... its anti-bacterial, anti-viral and anti-fungal properties..."

Amused, John watched and listened, as his guest spoke at length and with surprising understanding of beekeeping.

"We could visit the hives today, if you'd like?"

Sherlock set the dipper down, his face reminiscent of a gawking child. "We could?"

"Of course." John smiled. "I'll check when the plow's coming past. Perhaps Mike can drop off a larger pair of boots for you, you can't go out into the snow in those shoes again and none of mine will fit you."

"Oh, thank you." Sherlock nodded.

They spent the next couple of hours waiting for the snowplow and the boots to arrive, but conversation was easy and time passed quickly. Sherlock was curious to know all about his life, the house, the bees, the precipitation in the area and, surprisingly, the local church choir - something to do with correlation between choral repertoire and crime rates - but John did not attend services and did not have the pertinent information.

Mike arrived, with a recap of snow-laden fallen tree branches, huge snow drifts the winds caused and other stuck vehicles. Everyone was alright, most were enjoying it in fact. Tea cups were supplemented with a tin box of biscuits John had baked himself leading to another bout of strong approval from Sherlock.

Eager to see Mike out, Sherlock, boots on already, stood by the door buttoning his great coat. "John, the hives, it'll be too dark soon?"

Putting away the dishes in the kitchen John checked the clock. "Alright. But, don't you want to get any of your things from the car now the road is clear? Extra clothes?"

"It was supposed to be quick two-day case, John, barely a four. I only accepted because London has been so dreadfully boring lately." He looked a bit sheepish. "I may have rushed to the auto rental with insufficient preparation, as it is."

And if the idiot wrapping a second, not wool mind you but bloody silk, shawl around his neck didn't give John some kind of mirthful thrill.

"There isn't even a toothbrush in that car, is there?" He couldn't suppress a snicker.

"Nope." Sherlock grinned.

"Being a doctor, I should have enquired about any medication..."

And the man gestured for John to hurry up.

"I would bet there was a pair of reading glasses there, watching you squint at the postcard in the kitchen earlier."

"Well, John," Sherlock took a thick scarf from the hook into his own hands and wrapped it around John's neck, "had we met earlier in life perhaps you'd been a worthy consulting detective's assistant. You do seem less of an idiot than the rest of them."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As John took care of the fire, with more care than was necessary, Sherlock politely washed their bowls out in the kitchen sink. He was humming and filling the kettle and John watched the man go about the kitchen, his kitchen, grabbing two cups, reaching for the tea, the sugar, as if... as if it was his own. 
> 
> \--- 
> 
> (Rating is at "Teen and Up" now...)

The view over the moor was spectacular with low but still bright sunlight over the fresh snow. A wonderful calm, no wind, no sound. John took several more deep breaths before following his guest inside.

Sherlock had watched in a strange kind of awe as John carefully checked on the snow-covered hives, clearing the fallen snow from the entrances. He had leaned down to hear the buzz and asked several questions in a low voice. The attention was... surprisingly pleasing. He'd lived alone for a long time now, long before his retirement on the moor. It suited him.

But the scrutiny, the keen line of inquiry, and that bloody low drawl. It excited him.

He shut the door and pulling his boots off realised the conversation was still ongoing, Sherlock, one scarf trailing from hand onto the floor, in the middle of something about winter cleansing flights around the hive. He laughed. The ridiculous man. And just minutes ago it seemed as if he'd never seen a hive up close.

"Well, it's a while until the first flowering dandelions, but I can have a hearty leek and potato soup on the table in less than an hour." John got his coat off and strode towards the kitchen rolling up his sleeves to wash his hands. He started peeling the potatoes.

The fire was still strong and the house warm. Sherlock, hands clenched at his back, wool socks, stood at the fireplace as if lost in thought. Cutting the vegetables and heating up a large pot of water John wondered how a person could disappear from their life, their home, with no one to ring and ask for them - the phone, once John had charged it, had kept silent.

"Want to help with the bread? I need to start the dough for tomorrow. Come on, wash your hands, it'll be fun."

"Yes, of course." Sherlock looked up and gave a shy smile. "I suppose I should work for my meal." He joined him in the kitchen just as John put the last of the soup ingredients into the pot, bay leaves and black pepper, and gave it a stir with a large wooden spoon. "John, I am grateful for your help and your hospitality. I do have to warn you I have never made bread myself."

Placing the needed ingredients on the table John smiled as Sherlock fidgeted with the cardigan and his sleeves, serious, frowning. "I suppose it is just another experiment in organic chemistry, though, quantities and reactions, temperature and time."

John placed a large bowl in the middle of it all and tipped flour into it. Then dry yeast from a smaller jar and a large pinch of salt from the bowl on the table.

Sherlock eyed the proceedings with suspicion. "No scales?"

"No, not after all this time, no." John smiled. "Same recipe, same hands... Well, a different set now, actually. Go on, mix it up." He gestured with his fingers over the bowl.

Sherlock carefully mixed the flour with his finger tips.

"Now the fun starts." With a grin he couldn't suppress John tipped a can of black treacle into the bowl, Sherlock biting down what sounded as a yelp, then added some water from a glass.

Surprisingly, after the cautious start, Sherlock was happily mixing the forming dough as John added more water, then showed him how to knead the dough ball on the floured surface of the wooden table.

They worked together, close, hands occasionally touching, hips grazing once or twice. And John was becoming aware of a happy warmth deep in his chest.

"Alright, time for the proving basket. The magic here happens overnight." And meeting Sherlock's open gaze he felt himself blush. Who was the ridiculous man now, oh.

Tucking the edges underneath until the top of the dough ball was smooth, John placed the dough into the basket and covered it with a clean tea towel. Just in time, the soup was almost ready.

They ate at the table, large bowls of soup, yesterday's rye bread, and two glasses of ale. One of Sherlock's sleeves smeared with rye flour.

Sherlock had complimented the soup, as if words could ever express as much as watching him soak up the last of his second bowl with the bread's crust, lips smacking in delight. He'd politely asked John for seconds, with a mixture of eagerness and embarrassment. He looked so young, unguarded, beaming even.

The towing service was expected tomorrow, noon at the latest. Sherlock was leaving in the morning. John suddenly felt restless.

He cleared his throat and got up. "The fire needs stoking."

As he took care of the fire, with more care than was necessary, Sherlock politely washed their bowls out in the kitchen sink. He was humming and filling the kettle and John watched the man go about the kitchen, his kitchen, grabbing two cups, reaching for the tea, the sugar, as if... as if it was his own.

Armchair and chair, pulled close to the fire, two crochet blankets, two cups of tea, four wool-clad feet stretching in front of the low flames.

Soon Sherlock was deep into retelling the chain of deductions from one of his more complex cases, one that took him from London to Mallorca and Istanbul, all rotten businessmen counting their profits as innocent bystanders took fall after fall. Until the brilliant consulting detective tore the web apart and all but one of the men were caught. And that last one did find himself in trouble with HM Revenue & Customs two years later, his solicitor somehow compromised. They giggled together as Sherlock alluded to document copies getting onto wrong desks and emails being read by just the right people.

"John?"

"Hm?" John rubbed at one of his eyes. Was it this late already?

"You're tired. And you've been favoring your left hip today, unlike the previous evening. You should take the bed tonight."

"Oh, no, no I couldn't." He straightened up. "You're my guest after all."

Sherlock had set down his cup and was settling in the armchair, blanket pulled up over his chest. "Go on, get the fire ready and go to bed, John. I'm fine here."

His bedtime routine quickly over John stood by the bed, fresh pyjamas laid out by the pillow. Right. He changed quickly, back to Sherlock, in the low light of the banked fire. Then crawled deep under the warm duvet.

Right. Sleep.

He kept his eyes closed but knew it was futile. A small breath or shift of blanket, not louder than the crackling of the fire, yet he was aware he wasn't alone in the room.

And then a whisper. "You were kneeling... when you were shot."

"How can you...?" He sighed. Eyes still closed. "I was."

"Hm."

And without a second thought, John pulled the edge of the duvet down and said, plainly, "Come to bed."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The car is ready?" John managed in a slightly shaky voice. 
> 
> Sherlock nodded with a slight frown. 
> 
> Now, no dramatics, Watson. "There are two jars of my honey in here. You can compare seasonal harvests..." 
> 
> "I... I cannot thank you enough, John, for everything." 
> 
> John set both palms down on the table beside the bag and attempted a smile.

It was simple. Warmth, comfort, touch. An unexpected, sincere happiness.

An embrace.

They'd taken just a moment to settle under the duvet together, the taller man nestled against his side. John took a shaky hand and brought it against his chest to hold. They slept.

John woke to a soft snore at the back of his neck, a hand on his hip. He woke with a grin on his face, feeling young, foolish, excited. Outside the wind had picked up and inside the fire had gone down. Still, he was in no hurry to leave this snug cocoon, the rhythm of breaths, the unexpected shifts of long legs tangling with his own. He closed his eyes. Just a bit longer.

Finally, as Sherlock turned onto his back stretching away from him in sleep, it was time to get up. Take care of his insistent bladder, build a fire in the fireplace and another in the wood-burning stove in the kitchen, fill the kettle, dress for the day.

The duvet shifted once in a while, a sigh or a mumbled word only signs of a man hidden under it.

Judging the oven to be ready, he pushed in a tin cup of boiling water to get the steam he needed for a good crust, then carefully inverted his dough onto a baking tray. Into the oven it went.

He sat down in the armchair with his tea just in time to observe his guest stirring. Wild, gray curls, a yawn, an awfully wrinkled shirt.

"John... Good morning."

"Good morning," he was smiling, he couldn't stop smiling, "sleep well?"

Sherlock sat up with the duvet around his shoulders, socked feet on the floor, blinking, "Exceptionally well. Again. You?"

"Better than in a long while."

"You're baking bread. It smells wonderful."

"I'm afraid it won't cool in time for breakfast. We can have some later."

Sherlock looked down at his shirt. "I don't suppose you own an iron..."

"Unfortunately no, hadn't needed one since my retirement. But you can wear one of my long sleeved thermals, under the cardigan?"

Sherlock wiggled and scrunched his toes in the bright blue wool socks. "Thank you. Your hospitality has been... beyond expectation." A shy smile.

And suddenly all John could think about was kissing that smile.

Breakfast was mostly solemn, Sherlock nibbled on a slice of toast and thanked John once more.

Just as John took out the fresh bread to cool under a damp cloth, the towing service parked outside.

They dressed, Sherlock still in borrowed boots, and watched as the village mechanic, a young man eager to help, lifted the hood. John tried to pay attention to the discussion about ignition, battery, fuel pump... but he found it hard to tear his eyes off the tall man beside him. He returned to the house, supposedly to put the kettle on, just in time to hear the car start.

Well, he was just an unexpected guest in a snowstorm.

John forgot about the tea. Instead, suspecting Sherlock was eager to start his journey home during daylight, he set about packing a canvas bag with the still warm bread, a piece of local cheese, a bottle of water, and two jars of his own honey wrapped in a clean tea towel. Perhaps a thermos as well...

"A picnic?" Sherlock was standing just inside the door, boots and coat on.

"The car is ready?" John managed in a slightly shaky voice.

Sherlock nodded with a slight frown.

Now, no dramatics, Watson. "There are two jars of my honey in here. You can compare seasonal harvests..."

"I... I cannot thank you enough, John, for everything."

John set both palms down on the table beside the bag and attempted a smile.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I prefer to text, John." 
> 
> "Well, I'm past sixty and prefer not to twiddle with the touchscreen, Sherlock." John smiled. "Glad to hear you are taking care of yourself. Antibiotics?" 
> 
> "A slight pneumonia, nothing of concern." 
> 
> John groaned dropping his glasses onto the floor. "A slight..."

"Thank you for the cod, Molly, that'll be perfect."

"See you next week John, and you'll tell me all about the Brazilian fish stew, sounds positively exotic!"

John tried to make it to the village once a week, on foot during the better days, back with the local bus line that stopped just half a mile down the road from him. He'd stock up on fresh ingredients to supplement his pantry, and more importantly, see a few of the villagers, drink a pint at the pub and get updated on the local gossip and sports.

Then back home to a quiet evening supper. As he preferred it.

He'd installed a new aerial for the radio, a fun project, even in the chilly drizzle. A delivery of fresh paperbacks, spines glossy, arrived just yesterday. He kept busy. Tested two new bread recipes, one with whey he had leftover from straining some yogurt.

Two weeks had passed.

Nothing.

No news from Sherlock.

Then a bad cold. Four days of fever and feeling miserable, inflamed throat, loss of appetite. Bowls of oatmeal and endless cups of tea. Cracked lips and horrible headaches. At the end of the slow recovery he was exhausted.

He felt old.

Never mind, spring was soon on it's way. This was just the end of a longer than usual winter and he'd be back to his old ways in a week or two. The bees depended on him, plus he'd need to see to the small garden after the frost...

Something woke him. Confused John looked at the fire. So, not much time had passed, not morning yet.

Another low ping. His mobile.

John got up from bed slowly to find it next to the armchair, his reading glasses thankfully right next to it. It was just past two.

Sliding back into bed he unlocked the screen.

'I am guessing you own the Hungarian goose down, 9 tog? - SH'

He broke into a deep laugh. Of course. And at two in the morning?!

Well, as long as he was awake, now giggling in his bed. 'Since when do you guess?'

'John, this is of importance. And urgent. - SH'

'No, no geese. I keep bees.' This was silly. Amazingly fun, too.

'I did say urgent, John. - SH'

'What happened to the eiderdown?'

'Unsalvageable. - SH'

And as John was slowly typing, another ping, 'What idiot thinks descriptors such as "snuggledown" are of use in making one's selection?! - SH'

Idiot indeed. He sighed.

'Sherlock, go to M&S in the morning, get the one that's not too puffy. Or whatever you can afford. You can do it online.'

There was a pause.

'Thank you, John. I've put in an order. Goodnight. - SH'

Oh, no, you're not getting away with waking me up for your online shopping and then dropping the conversation!

'Did you get the matching bedding set in the right size?'

A small pause.

'I might have wrongly estimated the size of the duvet. You were obviously the right person to contact, John. Amending my order. And adding bedding. - SH'

'What about a couple of tea towels while you're at it? Perhaps there's a special offer on cat motifs?' He was enjoying this.

'Is that an attempt at humor? - SH'

Hm, might as well... 'Rather an attempt at flirting.'

'Not really my area. - SH'

John rubbed his eyes and adjusted his glasses. Well...

Another ping.

'What I meant to say, John, is that I am, unlike yourself, not experienced in the practice and may misread the intention…’

Oh, bloody hell. He pressed the call button and closed his strained eyes.

"John?" A rough voice, then a bad cough.

"You're ill?"

The alarming cough continued. John sat up in bed.

"Sherlock?"

"Apologies. A cold."

"You have a cold? Is this the 'urgent' bit?"

"I've mislaid the gas bill..."

Idiot. How did this man make it to fifty?!

"No heating?" John muttered, "and an, I'm afraid to ask, unsalvageable cover?"

"The new duvet will be delivered tomorrow."

He sighed. "Isn't there a family member, or a friend you could stay with, so you wouldn't be on your own?"

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

"What? No. Friends protect people, Sherlock. They help you order a duvet and tell you to find a warm place to stay while you're ill."

"Oh." Blowing his nose.

"Do you have money for a hotel room, until the heating is settled?" This was worrying. "Sherlock, I wouldn't mind... paying for a room for you..."

More coughing and a small sniffle. "I... John... Yes! Of course!" There was some noise in the background and a few garbled words. "John, I am taking the cab now. Thank you, that was brilliant! Let's chat tomorrow!" And the call ended.

He managed a couple of hours of sleep, once waking with a distinct feeling Sherlock was in the room.

There was no news from the man and in the light of day John was embarrassed to call again. So he went about his day, chores and small routines.

As he settled into bed for the night, phone at his side, he couldn't resist one more glance at the screen. He was worried. And as if on cue, it pinged.

'The hotel was truly a brilliant idea John. Thank you, once more. - SH'

'Heating and covers?' And a hot meal, hopefully.

'The concierge has been of assistance. I've had a brief consultation with a doctor, not one as observant as you are, and am to take antibiotics and soup. Their tea is to be recommended. - SH’

He pressed the call button.

"I prefer to text, John." He did sound slightly less ill. There was also low music in the background, something classical?

"Well, I'm past sixty and prefer not to twiddle with the touchscreen, Sherlock." He smiled. "Glad to hear you are taking care of yourself. Antibiotics?"

"A slight pneumonia, nothing of concern."

John groaned dropping his glasses onto the floor. "A slight..."

He was interrupted by another bout of coughing.

"But on the mend now. Room service brings up soup on schedule. And they have a duvet. Several, in fact."

They spoke for over an hour, John finally dozing off with the phone on his pillow as Sherlock listed his favorite teas, with an exceptionally long and soothing description of Assam's maltiness, related to its cultivation and production...


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You were married once, John? I am correct.' - SH 
> 
> John growled. 'As changes of topic go, this one was SUBTLE. GOOD NIGHT.' 
> 
> 'John, the caps lock is on. My estimate is a two year marriage in your late thirties, no offspring.' - SH 
> 
> John swore and switched the phone off until morning.

The snow had melted and although the nights were still frosty John wanted to finish the winter work in his small garden before the growing season got under way. He also had two beautiful forsythia bushes along the side of the house that were in full bloom and would need pruning soon.

On the rare sunny days he opened the windows of the house to air the rooms and turned up the radio to keep him company as he worked. The bees were happily active, too.

In a matter of weeks the two men had established a routine of their own. Sherlock would send several text messages on disparate subjects at random times throughout the day.

'John, how far does your baking expertise extend? I am watching a riveting competition and the sticky toffee puddings are intriguing. I may post a box of medjool dates to your address.' - SH

Aha, the television again. John went back to the pruning. At least it was not a quiz. The last attempt to watch one had riled Sherlock up into a frenzy of coughing and messages. After a brief call and some yelling, John had called the reception to politely ask for room service, camomile infusion and a switching off of the television for the night. Sherlock sulked and John apologized. Then Sherlock apologized.

The days were increasingly warmer and Sherlock had mostly recovered but stayed at the hotel.

'A fascinating documentary on the mating habits of lions, John. Did you know the females are polyestrous?' - SH

'A mating marathon can involve twenty to forty romps a day, John! Imagine that!' - SH

And miles away, while at the village post office, John Watson was picking up a package with embarrassingly reddened cheeks and surely the young lady working there now thought him either a tippler... or worse.

Most evenings they'd settle for the night with a long call. Somehow there was always a topic Sherlock wished to talk about - one of Sherlock's old cases, the detailed procedure of disassembly and cleaning of a Sig Sauer semi-automatic pistol, statistical analysis of murder by poisoning, the pertinent literature on beekeeping...

As far as John could tell the madman had benefited from regular meals and visits from a physician at the hotel that catered to his every whim. There was the initial fascination with the duvets, fresh scones delivered to the room any time of day or night, the exceptional laundering service and the 24 hour television programme.

'John, the only way for a gentlemen to live is in a hotel. Where one can place a sign on the door when one wishes not be disturbed by idiots.' - SH

Sherlock refused to discuss John's assistance in his returning to the flat, and he clearly was able to afford the hotel for the time being. John thought about Sherlock becoming a recluse, like Tesla, feeding pigeons from his window and mumbling at the wall, alone. The thought made him uneasy.

But after a while Sherlock was getting bored with it all. Or at least that was the excuse he gave for his clear agitation and the fresh barrages of increasingly prodding messages.

'Bored! Bored! Bored!' - SH

John had been sleeping. It was just past four in the morning. The man needed something to occupy himself, he needed to return to his flat, his work, his life. He needed to let John sleep!

'A case? Anything from the Met?'

'You were married once, John? I am correct.' - SH

John growled. 'As changes of topic go, this one was SUBTLE. GOOD NIGHT.'

'John, the caps lock is on. My estimate is a two year marriage in your late thirties, no offspring.' - SH

John swore and switched the phone off until morning.

The text messages stopped. John tried calling.

Three days later Sherlock's phone was still off and, after a call to the hotel, John found out he'd checked out.

A week of no communication and John became worried.

They barely knew each other. No, no, that was not true. They'd only met once, but they'd become quite close. John missed him.

Tesla and the pigeons. Oh, bloody hell.

It had been a while since he'd gone down to London on the train for the day...


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John?" 
> 
> "A bad time? I was passing by and..." 
> 
> Sherlock snorted. "Passing by?" He gestured for John to follow him inside. "You clearly took the 7 o'clock down to King's Cross, had some of the horrific 'tea' they serve..." he started on the stairs but turned for another quick glance at John closing the door behind them, then two at a time up the stairs dressing gown trailing, as John scrambled to follow.

London.

Getting off the train at King's Cross John walked under the station's massive dome among the crowd. A bit different from his day, but just as busy. He had planned to walk to stretch his legs after several hours sitting on the train but it was pouring rain so, backpack and no umbrella, he opted for the tube.

Even busier. And humid. Teenagers pushing each other on the platform. And the fare was astronomical. And he had problems with the wretched machine. No, he did not miss London.

He had made plans for the day. If his principal enquiry was fruitless. The British Museum for a few blissful hours, then a very good shop for the new walking boots he needed, and finally he had a few phone numbers of old army mates to look up; Murray was always eager to escape the grandkids and grab a pint at short notice.

He stood in the rain in front of a door marked 221B, the address he found on Sherlock's, largely defunct, website. Alright. John tried the ornate knocker politely.

Nothing.

He took a deep breath and pounded his fist against the door.

"Oh, what now?! I'm not..."

John looked up to see a familiar gray-haired figure poking out the upstairs window, a curtain billowing around him.

He tried a smile.

Something crashed inside and there was pounding of feet on stairs. The door swung open swiftly.

"John?"

He was alright. And here. And bloody gorgeous. Wrapped in a blue silk dressing gown, his hair wild.

"Hey, hullo!" John grinned widely.

"John?"

"A bad time? I was passing by and..."

Sherlock snorted. "Passing by?" He gestured for John to follow him inside. "You clearly took the 7 o'clock down to King's Cross, had some of the horrific 'tea' they serve," he started on the stairs but turned for another quick glance at John closing the door behind them, then two at a time up the stairs dressing gown trailing, as John scrambled to follow, "...did not eat though... then the tube."

John followed him up into a sitting room where Sherlock suddenly lost momentum and spun around, looking slightly apprehensive.

"You came directly here."

"Yeah," John shrugged, still smiling, "I did." He took in the room. It had been a great room once, he supposed, ornamented rugs and elaborate wallpaper, bookshelves of mementos and a mirror above the fireplace mantel. Now, wallpaper peeling in places, the rug with burn marks, and an incredible amount of stacked papers, debris and just plain dust on every surface, it was derelict. And Sherlock, looking better than he expected, standing barefoot in the middle of it all.

"Tea?"

"I'd love some, thank you."

He set his backpack down on the corner of a sofa missing part of its stuffing and followed the man through the open sliding doors into a kitchen.

"Yes, I am aware it is not..." Sherlock waved a hand about.

"Never mind the state of the kitchen. How are you?"

"Fine. Good." He was sifting through the pile of dishes in the sink in search of a cup.

John took off his jacket, draped it on the back of a chair and stepped closer to grab the kettle off the stove.

Tea sorted, they shifted around some of the papers to free the second armchair and sit.

"And the work?" John asked.

"There are no cases. Well, nothing interesting. Almost died in a snowstorm for barely a four recently..."

"What, London's criminals have all given up? All the corrupt bankers and tax-avoiding villains and drug lords?"

Sherlock shifted in his seat. "Donovan won't work with me. None of them will."

"Who's Donovan?"

"DCI Sally Donovan. Lestrade retired last year. He was... a good detective. Well, passable."

Sherlock fidgeted with the belt of his dressing gown and looked away.

"And the private cases? The ones that... bring in money?"

And he's up on his feet, pacing the room, arms flailing. "It is unbearable John! Idiots," hands tugging at hair, "and their various 'social networks'," he pronounced the phrase with a touch of disgust, "as if there was anything socially relevant in those cesspools of narcissistic spew, John! 'Hacked'?!" he spat out the word. "As if Sherlock Holmes is the man to call when you forget to logout of the display tablet in the local shop?!"

With a huff Sherlock sat down. And they finished the tea, mostly in silence.

What followed was a whirlwind of a day.

After Sherlock was suitably dressed, an undertaking which left John enough time for a second cup of tea but was in his humble, and frankly blushing, opinion well worth the wait, the two jumped into a black cab for a breakfast for two with plenty tea at a quaint art deco cafe, formica tables and tiled walls. Once more, Sherlock ate with delight, requesting an extra side of bubble and squeak for John, then quizzing him on his favorites in London before going into great detail about the gruesome murder, fork playing out the fatal knife slashes, that happened in the alley next to the cafe some years ago.

The subsequent visit to the British Museum meant a tour by one of its curators of the horological collections, a woman thrilled to see Sherlock again as he'd consulted there on several occasions. The behind the scenes look left John speechless. But that wasn't an issue as Sherlock bantered at length with the curator on the topic of the perpetual mechanical Gregorian computus.

By mid-afternoon they were both exhausted and hungry again, although Sherlock denied both.

"What about a takeaway?" John suggested as they were exiting the Museum.

"Takeaway?" Sherlock looked appalled, "But London offers some of the finest dining in the world, John, Michelin star restaurants..."

John shrugged and smiled, "You know, no decent takeaway curries on the moor."

They made it back in another cab, Sherlock placed the call and they cleared the sofa and the coffee table as well as they could while they waited for the food.

John took off his shoes and freshened up in the surprisingly tidy bathroom just as the food arrived.

They shared a vindaloo and a korma, samosas and naan, with a spicy chutney and ale, Sherlock animated as ever, dipping his naan into the sauce and speaking about the 28-inch Greenwich refracting telescope he wanted to show John.

"No television?" John asked, stuffed and sleepy.

"Hm. I had one, before."

They were lounging on the sofa, John stretching his feet next to the remains of the meal on the table, Sherlock's socked feet in his lap. John rubbed a thin ankle.

"I was thinking of getting one, at home, but I'm afraid of becoming the grumpy old fart yelling at quiz shows on BBC."

Sherlock yawned, again.

"Bed?"

"Well, if you don't mind sharing with a grumpy old fart..."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But this, this was a different thrill all together. 
> 
> John was excited. And terrified. 
> 
> "You are thinking. It's annoying." Sherlock's voice was hoarse. 
> 
> And John smiled again. "Oh, did I wake you, with my thinking?"

The way the light fell from the window. The sound of busy traffic on the street outside. A faint voice from somewhere in the adjoining building.

But mostly it was the long-limbed body wrapped around him, one hand reaching under his shirt, small huffs of breath against the back of his neck.

John wasn't at home. And he wasn't alone.

He had to bite his lip to contain a giggle.

This was... Well, it was exactly what he'd hoped to find coming to London, to be completely honest.

They'd gotten into bed last night without a second thought. John changed into his pyjamas and brushed his teeth, while Sherlock simply stripped down to his pants and crawled under the duvet, mumbling something, one sock still on.

The fingers of the wandering hand twitched slightly and the warmth of the touch on the skin of his chest... He closed his eyes again.

There were a few, just a few, moments in his life when John had thought about a relationship with a man. The opportunity had never really come up. And he'd never sought it out. There were a couple of, well, encounters, for lack of a better word, during his military days. Passionate but quick romps with other young men. The brief thrill of it.

But this, this was a different thrill all together.

John was excited. And terrified.

"You are thinking. It's annoying." Sherlock's voice was hoarse.

And John smiled again. "Oh, did I wake you, with my thinking?"

"Don't mind being woken. I did suspect your excellent duvet, but I'm now ready to confirm it is you, John Watson, who are a surprisingly strong soporific." And somehow he settled even closer, slotting his body tightly against John's, and yawned.

John wanted this. All of it.

"You were right. I was married, once. Didn't work out."

Sherlock just hummed indistinctly, not at all startled by the topic.

"I was good at dating. Well, good at first, sometimes second dates. Not many third dates. Seems most women aren't interested in discharged army doctors, in their forties, with raging PTSP triggered by anything from a loud sneeze to a passing bus."

"You sought a simple life."

"I guess. A practice in a smaller town up north. Regular hours. No surprises. The years pass so quickly..."

He placed his hand over the one that had strayed to his stomach. Suddenly he wasn't sure he'd measure up to this, to Sherlock, his life, his expectations.

"And you?"

"It hasn't been simple, or uneventful. There were some extraordinary cases, people. No one of note, though. Besides the odd serial murderer who got too cocky and presented a good chase. None of them proposed marriage, though."

John laughed. "And friends?"

"I don't have friends." Sherlock's voice lowers to a whisper. "I've just got one."

Against his shoulder, the scarred one, John imagines he feels a brush of lips and a shaky exhale.

So, like the brave soldier he is, he clears his throat and suggests, "Tea?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You enjoyed your brief visit to London but have no wish to live in a large metropolis.' - SH 
> 
> It had been a couple of weeks. And he'd thanked Sherlock for his hospitality already. The man hated repeating himself. But, then, John didn't always follow his train of thought. 
> 
> 'Yes, thank you again for the wonderful time.' 
> 
> 'That's settled then.' - SH

Idiot. He was an idiot.

John stared at the paper cup of tepid tea in his hand, the train already half way through the journey as heavy rain poured down the glass pane of the window.

He should have...

Yes, right. Should have had, but didn't, did he. Idiot.

And now he was in for an hour's wait for the bus, then the half a mile on foot to a freezing house that would take hours to heat up. He'd insisted on returning home today. Out of what misplaced sentiment he still couldn't tell.

John sighed and closed his eyes, the memory of long fingers brushing against his skin. They had shaken hands on the platform. Tight smiles. He was a coward and an idiot.

But life had its own schedule. He was low on wood and had to arrange a delivery. Then space out the chopping and stacking over four days not to overburden his aging body.

'John, is the clover in bloom?' - SH

'Just starting.'

'Would you mind sending a photo?' - SH

'Of the clover?'

'Yes, preferably with some bees. Or the hive entrance. Either.' - SH

He'd only managed a blurry photo, green with some white spots. You couldn't really distinguish the bees. Sherlock didn't mind. In fact he commented on the differently stacked wood in the background.

'You enjoyed your brief visit to London but have no wish to live in a large metropolis.' - SH

It had been a couple of weeks. And he'd thanked Sherlock for his hospitality already. The man hated repeating himself. But, then, John didn't always follow his train of thought.

'Yes, thank you again for the wonderful time.'

'That's settled then.' - SH

There was now more and more work in the garden. The days were warmer. He went fishing and saw an osprey swooping onto the river in the distance. Village life went on. One of Molly's boys turned up one afternoon unannounced babbling about something or other over a cup of tea until some very direct prodding led to a lecture on female anatomy and the absolute impossibility of a horror film scenario that had kept the lad awake for a few nights.

He exchanged messages with Sherlock, but infrequently. Certainly less than before. No evening calls. John really missed those. The man seemed very busy suddenly. And, although John refrained from any conclusions, he kept referring to the 'assistance of that capable concierge' who was 'helping him sort things out'. Well, that was that.

He was enjoying a bottle of ale that came as a gift from another retired MD in the village who'd taken up brewing as a hobby. His phone rang.

It was Sherlock's number.

"H-Hullo?"

"John, good, you're awake."

"Of course I'm awake, it's only half eight. Are you alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, you prefer to text."

"I do."

"And?"

"Ah, yes, well, John..."

Now he was unnerved. John set his glass down and cleared his throat. "Did you burn something in the kitchen again? Are you injured?"

"No! That was the one time John!"

"Alright, then why the call?"

"How are you, John?"

And he laughed. "Fine, I'm fine. You?"

"Feeling quite accomplished." He did sound pleased with oneself.

"Another mystery laid to rest?"

"More than one, John! All of them!"

"All of them? What do you mean?"

"Yes, Wilder has recommended a reputable service..."

"Wilder?"

"Yes, the concierge of the establishment where I recuperated recently. Do keep up, John."

Smug bastard. It was good to hear his voice. John sank back into the armchair and took another sip.

"Tea? No, no, after a long day in the garden you opt for an ale."

"Yes, yes, drinking an ale. Wilder and all that?"

"There have been three young women here and one rather industrious young man, very diligent, working night and day!"

"Sherlock, what is this about?"

"The Science of Deduction, John! The archive!"

"Your website? I thought you had abandoned it?"

"Not a website. Or, not that website. John, we've archived it all, all the cases, the work! The flat is empty! Scanned, digitised, uploaded, boxed up!"

"Where does it all go?"

"Well, a respectable university has shown interest for the work. They're interviewing prospective doctoral candidates in the coming weeks. They've been insufferable for some years now, actually. I've been... reluctant to part with it all..."

"And you? Will you work there, at the university?"

"A ridiculous thought! The administrative constraints..."

John rolled his eyes and mumbled, "Ridiculous, yes."

And there was silence on the other end. For a moment he thought the line had dropped.

"Sherlock?"

"You said I could visit again." His voice was tight.

Oh. "You'd like to come up again?"

"At once... if convenient."

He was grinning like a madman and surely the man could tell. "Yes, yes, of course, anytime. The weather has been unseasonably warm..."

"John, I couldn't care less about the weather."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They stood at the back of the Land Rover and John, hands crossed on his chest, surveyed the large overpacked boot, suitcases and boxes filling the space. "You've brought an armchair?" 
> 
> "It was a pity to leave it John, it is a Corbusier. And you only have the one..." Sherlock abruptly stopped speaking.

Bloody armchair cushion. John shook it and resettled it in the seat. Then pushed it slightly to the left. This was ridiculous. He was an idiot.

Hands on hips and head shaking he laughed nervously.

He'd been up since before dawn. Happy, busy. Baking fresh bread, changing the linens and stacking fresh towels in the room upstairs, resweeping the floors.

Changing his shirt, twice. Cardigan once. 

Sherlock was coming for a visit. Today. Any moment. Or not. Impossible to tell as the man had stopped answering his phone two days ago.

He'd brought in a mix of purple hydrangeas and violet lilac to adorn the table and then felt silly about them and moved them to a corner of the kitchen counter. Then moved one of the kitchen chairs to the fireplace next to the armchair.

By now his nerves were frazzled and he was just looking for things to occupy his hands. Fidgeting.

Finally, John heard tires on gravel outside and had to take a breath to calm himself.

Outside, standing next to a mud-splattered Land Rover and taking off what seemed to be leather driving gloves, attired in tweed and tattersall, knee-high polished country boots and wind-blown grey curls, stood Sherlock Holmes, the epitome of what a fashion advert might deem as the 'landed gentry look'. Ridiculous. And breathtakingly gorgeous.

"John, we are a country of roundabouts!"

"Hullo there!"

Well, into the fray Watson...

John walked over to the man, sure and steady steps, set one hand on his elbow, and stretched up to place a light peck on his cheek, "Welcome back."

Sherlock looked startled, a pink blush evident, "Yes... thank you."

Right.

"Was the drive tiring?"

"I wouldn't mind some tea. And if you happen to have any of the ginger biscuits you keep in the tin box..."

One last squeeze to that bony elbow and Sherlock followed John inside.

Soon they were settled in front of the fire, Sherlock happily nibbling on a plate of biscuits as he disparaged the car's top of the line sat nav and offered several very exhaustive ideas on the improvement of the British motorway system.

"Should I help you with your luggage? I suppose this time you've brought a toothbrush?" John giggled.

"I wouldn't dare impose, John. As I've planned a... slightly longer stay this time I've arranged for a room in the village. Mrs. Hudson expects me by seven."

John burst out in loud laughter. And watching Sherlock's socks matched to plaid stripes, composed posture and the way he gingerly held the plate of biscuits as if dining with royalty, John had to set his teacup down afraid he'd drop it in his hysterics.

Sherlock frowned.

"You are not rooming with Martha Hudson! The woman runs a cat rescue! There is never less than twenty animals in the house and they roam freely. And use all the beds!"

Clearing his throat and shifting slightly in his seat, Sherlock spoke slowly, "She did ask if I was more a dog or cat person. I took it to be a, well, a personality test for a prospective lodger. In fact she'd seemed quite enthusiastic when I mentioned a childhood pet."

John shook his head and rubbed at one tearful eye, still grinning. "We'll call her and you can make your apologies. An allergy to cat hair perhaps. And you're perfectly welcome to stay here. For as long as you've planned. There is a fine bedroom upstairs in the loft. I never use it so it's all yours. It's still a bit chilly but I've two new blankets, Shetland wool."

"Thank you, John, but only for as long as I am not in the way." Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

They stood at the back of the Land Rover and John, hands crossed on his chest, surveyed the large overpacked boot, suitcases and boxes filling the space.

"You've brought an armchair?"

"I've left the rest of the furniture to the buyers to do with as they please."

"Buyers?"

"Yes, it was time John." Sherlock looked away. "Time to leave Baker Street."

"You've sold your flat?" John was stunned.

"It was empty. The archive was relocated."

"And the work?"

Sherlock hummed, heel of boot digging into gravel. 

"Sherlock?"

"Retiring." He looked straight at John, "It felt right."

They took in only two suitcases, and to John's surprise, a violin case Sherlock handled with great care, deciding to deal with the rest tomorrow.

"Still, an armchair?"

"It was a pity to leave it John, it is a Corbusier. And you only have the one..." Sherlock abruptly stopped speaking.

And John laughed again. The ridiculous, amazing, unbelievable man.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I apologise for being so forward, but is this plan feasible, financially?" John was agitated. "Selling your home, buying a bloody extravagant vehicle, setting off out of London where you've lived for most of your life... Is there a plan at all?"

John was checking on the fire in the fireplace and watching Sherlock at the kitchen table, devouring his second honey and sultana scone. Where the thin man found room for it after a large bowl of of smoked haddock, potatoes and onions they had for dinner was a mystery.

But there he was, socked feet tapping on the worn carpet, humming, chewing, visibly happy. And so beautiful. A riot of soft gray curls John wanted to touch.

Sherlock's two leather suitcases were still by the door but the violin case had been carefully set on the chest of drawers and opened to let the instrument 'acclimate a little'. He'd fussed with it as John had served dinner, but now it was forgotten. John wondered if it was appropriate to ask him about it. He was curious if the man really played.

"Tea?"

"Yes, please. John, you are an outstanding baker. The crumb of these scones, the level of moisture, just the right ratio of..." He reached for a third scone as John filled the kettle, then set it down on the table and jumped up from his chair.

"Ah! Tea!" And he grabbed one of the suitcases, opened it, and brought out, one by one, several small packages. He then carefully transferred them to the kitchen table. "A small token of thanks for... for everything, John."

"Oh, no need, really." John wiped his hands on a tea towel to take a look at the packages, seven of them. They were rather expensive looking, wrapped with layers of tissue paper and small colorful stickers.

As Sherlock beamed, rocking on his feet, John opened one. Tea. Another. And another tea. They were all different teas, the names of which John hadn't heard before.

"Thank you, never can have enough tea." He looked at one of the boxes, its label.

"Makaibari." Sherlock nodded at the box he held.

"Excuse me?"

"It is from the Makaibari estate. Their Silver Tips Imperial. Open it, please."

John opened the box and smelled the tea. Truly exquisite, as far as he could tell.

"Smells nice. Shall we have it?"

Sherlock smiled proudly, "I'm glad it is to your taste. Yes, let's have some."

John set about making a pot. "I hope it wasn't expensive. Very nice packaging. There is really no need for gifts..."

He turned around to find Sherlock standing halfway between the suitcase and the table, arms laden with more packages of different shapes and sizes.

"Just one or two things for the kitchen... Had I known I'd be staying with you, again, I'd have brought a more appropriate host gift."

As the tea steeped John opened several more packages. Spices. Three kinds of chutney. Dates.

"I never tasted the sticky toffee puddings we discussed. From the television competition..." Sherlock was starting to look uneasy.

Finally, John unwrapped a bottle of olive oil that must have cost a fortune, the glass resembling a crystal decanter. A real cork stopper.

He cleared his throat, "Right, thank you, there was really no need. Thank you."

"Have I chosen the wrong things?" His voice was tight.

"No, no, of course not. They are wonderful gifts, Sherlock. You should have not spent so much, really."

Sherlock scoffed. "You saved my life. And we are now discussing the price of a bottle of olive oil?"

John set the bottle amongst the other things on the table and poured the tea for both of them. Pushing one cup towards Sherlock he sat down and nodded towards the man to do so himself.

"Right. Thank you for the gifts, Sherlock. They are thoughtful and I do appreciate them." He brought the teacup up to his lips cradling it in both hands. It was still too hot to drink. And it was surely the most fragrant cup of tea he'd ever encountered. Delicate, seductive even. He blew on the surface of the drink. "It's just that the last time you were here I noticed you had been neglecting yourself. Seriously neglecting yourself. And your flat seemed... And now you've sold it and are speaking of retirement." He sipped. It was an incredible tea. "And the whole afternoon you've spoken of the 'tedium' of negotiating with the university around the archive, but not of a position there, or a pension. Are you... I apologise for being so forward, but is this plan feasible, financially? Selling your home, buying a bloody extravagant vehicle, setting off out of London where you've lived for most of your life... Is there a plan at all?" He sipped more tea. It was sensational. "How long were you planning to room at the cat shelter?"

Sherlock looked confused.

"John..."

"We haven't known each other for long but if you need any sort of support, including financial support, I'm fully prepared..."

"John!"

John looked at Sherlock who sat up from the chair, cheeks bright red.

"John, I... No." He promptly sat down and took the tea cup into his hands. "I've been self-sufficient since the early days of my career as a consulting detective. I did not need much. The flat. Basic equipment. Reasonable attire. I gave up smoking ages ago, used nicotine patches for a while. While the work for the Met, and other, government departments, was voluntary, the private clients brought in regular fees." He sipped his tea.

"Good, that's good." John nodded. "So, you've some security, a pension perhaps?"

"Not as such, no."

"Because, in case..."

"No, John, you misunderstand." Sherlock sighed. "There are the family funds I've never accessed. Until now."

"Family funds?"

"Yes," Sherlock seemed to finally compose himself, "considerable family funds. And my brother and I have no heirs. And if I choose to buy some tea for the doctor who pulled me out of a stalled car in a, very possibly, fatal snow storm, and nursed me to health. Giving up your own bed for a stranger... John, I... while I am in mind to transfer several stately homes' deeds, I am well aware a good cup of tea might be more appreciated." He looked down into his now empty cup, as if embarrassed. "I am not very well versed in these matters. I may have misstepped."

John held onto his cup firmly, afraid he might reach over the table if he let go.

"This tea is amazing."

This, seeing this smile of Sherlock's. Shy, guarded, gorgeous.

"Yes, it's quite good."

"So, you're wealthy."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Good thing I retired the acrylic blanket then."

He suddenly looked so young, so eager.

"I have fond memories of that crochet monstrosity." He was still smiling. Stunning.

"This," John looked around the well-worn house, the chipped cups and the single frayed armchair; looked down at his hands, wrinkled skin and age spots, "this is what you'd like?"

"Yes, all of it John."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're impossible." John was now aware of his hands pressing Sherlock tightly towards him as he spoke against velvety skin. 
> 
> "No, just improbable."

John finished the washing up and placed the last plate on the draining board. Drying his hands on a tea towel he watched as Sherlock arranged all the teas and other gifts in the cupboards, making sure the newly bought items mixed with the other boxes and jars, as if they'd already somehow been there. Fortified with dinner, scones and tea the man had finally relaxed and taken off his tweed jacket. And John was not about to tell him the back of his shirt was untucked.

"You'll have to teach me how to tend the fire John."

"The fire?"

"Yes, of course. I should share the responsibilities in the house, as long as I enjoy your hospitality. I may not be able to help with the cooking but surely keeping us warm is just as important. And any other chores."

John laughed. As long as...

"Well, I wouldn't mind some help in the garden, especially if we're looking to double the summer harvest." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this and John smiled a bit more. "Hope you've packed wellies alongside the armchair."

This was... impossible. And yet, here they were.

Two steps and Sherlock was standing very close to him. And reaching to take the tea towel from his hands and set it on the counter. Suddenly, John felt a wave of anticipation.

"The hydrangeas and lilacs, they're lovely."

He took one of John's hands in his. Warm, smooth skin. Such a simple gesture. John was speechless.

"A man should enjoy the pleasure of fragrant flowers." A hand on his waist.

And John closed his eyes. He wanted.

Sherlock gently pulled him into an embrace, still holding his hand. John shivered, his cheek leaning onto the man's shoulder. So close. Deep breaths. 

"John, I'm just saying... it's all fine."

"Good, yes." John managed. He placed a hand on a bony hip just as he felt lips brush his temple. The man even smelled extraordinary; leather, nutmeg, bergamot. He let himself sink into the embrace, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's slim waist.

More kisses along his hairline. He took several breaths to calm himself.

And stretched up to press his lips against Sherlock's.

He tasted of tea and honey. And as John pushed for a deeper kiss, teeth brushing his lips, he sighed, audibly.

"You're impossible." John was now aware of his hands pressing Sherlock tightly towards him as he spoke against velvety skin.

"No, just improbable." Sherlock slowly dragged his tongue along John's lips. And then bit, teasingly.

John felt his bad leg tremble. He couldn't. He was starting to shake, gasp for air. He lowered his forehead to rest against Sherlock's shoulder. They stayed like that for a bit, John trying to relax into the hands that held him so very close. He ran his fingers along the protruding bones of Sherlock's spine, feeling the warm body under the thin cotton of the shirt, the breaths, an elevated heart rate to rival his own.

"Never expected this much excitement at my age." He spoke quietly, his stubble catching against the shirt fabric.

"John... I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. I was mistaken."

"Oh." He reached for another, less hurried and longer kiss.

They took a short walk outside just as the sun was setting. Hand in hand. It was chilly but far from frost.

Sherlock reached down to pick one of the dandelions that had closed for the night, mumbling, "Nyctinastic response..."

"The days are getting longer. The gooseberries will be coming in soon. Not ripe as yet, but good enough to cook with."

"Once had grilled mackerel with gooseberry relish after solving a case in Dartmoor." He twirled the dandelion flower and scowled at it. "A missing race horse, an animal so valuable the local police were sure it was a case of simple theft. Had it not been for the curious incident of the dog in the night-time..."

They returned to the house, Sherlock continuing with a detailed account of the trail of deductions that led to his solving the case as John banked the fire for the night. He turned around to see the man set neatly folded pyjamas at the foot of the bed and pull the corner of the duvet down, a black leather washbag in hand.

Sherlock looked determined. He set the washbag on the chest of drawers and started on the buttons of the cuff of his shirt sleeve. "Should I help with the fire?"

"Oh, I'd rather you let me help with the buttons."

And they were both laughing like teenagers. Ridiculous. Amazing. Quite improbable.


End file.
